Part 3

"I tell you I heard it perfectly. Don't stand arguing. Come on! It's too late; but we'll finish the round, or at least until we meet Tames. Ouch! Great--"

The remainder of the sentence was blurred, yet high-pitched. A minute later Miss Chalmers heard:

"If it was Patrick who left that lawn-mower standing out I'll ship him off to-morrow. Why in blazes didn't you throw a light on it?"

"Sorry, sir. But you've got the torch, sir."

"Shut up! Come on!"

The men began moving again. Miss Chalmers calmly reached down and tore a large piece of expensive goods from the bottom of her skirt. This in turn she tore in halves. Then she carefully swathed the swivels.

When the oars were replaced they made a sound so soft that it could not have been heard a dozen feet. Keeping her distance from the shore-line, she followed the searchers.

The man who seemed to own the island began to talk again:

"He'd have had the silverware and the whole works if it hadn't been for me. It's a pity I have to do all the hearing for this house. I don't see why my servants can't have insomnia once in a while. What are they paid for? _I_ have it, so I suppose everybody else thinks it's all right to imitate the _Seven Sleepers_. You're quite sure he didn't take any of the silverware?"

"Almost certain, sir. But I'll look again when we get back. Nothing on top of the sideboard had even been touched."

"Well, it's mighty queer; that's all I've got to say. Except that I've a good mind to shoot a couple of dogs to-morrow morning."

"Oh, sir--please--I wouldn't, sir. They'll probably do better next time, sir."

"Next time! How many times do you expect this is going to happen, I'd like to know? I tell you I'll shoot 'em!"

"But they're not mad, sir; and I think--"

"Mad! I know they're not mad, you idiot! But they'll be darn-well provoked if I plump a couple of bullets into 'em."

Miss Chalmers rowed on slowly, her lip curled slightly to indicate her contempt for the conversation. It seemed to her that the evening had furnished nothing save a series of revelations of the incompetence of man. Not a thing that any man had done within her ken that night but she could have performed more efficiently herself, she reflected.

This was the stronger, the dominant sex, was it? With her shoulders she made an eloquent gesture, which was lost upon the night.

Almost at the point of returning to Witherbee's Island was she, when a yell from the shore caused her to turn her head swiftly.

"There he is now, by George! He's got a boat. Run! Head him off, before he gets away!"

A dog began to yelp excitedly.

"Sick him, Duke! Sick him! Stop that yawping and grab hold!"

She heard a soft patter of footsteps along the shore, then the staccato note of a gasoline engine.

"Lord! It's a motor-boat! There he goes! Hang that dog, he missed him!"

A fresh volley of shots came from the island.

"Get the launch! Quick! We're almost at the boat-house now! We'll get him yet!"

"Yes, sir, I'm after it."

The motor-boat that Miss Chalmers heard was exploding gasoline in boisterous fashion. She leaned as far as she dared across the gunwale of the skiff and tried to discern objects in the gloom.

It was difficult to distinguish anything save the dark bulk of the island. But the gasoline motor was whirling furiously. Then there were voices again.

"Got her cast off?"

"N-no, sir; not yet."

"For the love of Mike, hurry! He's underway now."

"There! All right, sir."

"Get forward and keep a lookout. Tell me which way to steer."

A second engine burst into action with a defiant roar. Miss Chalmers, resting upon her oars, knew that a chase had begun.

It was rather exciting now. A burglar was being pursued, but she could see neither the burglar nor the pursuers. Two engines were trying to smother each other's din, with the result that their voices mingled in a discordant bedlam.

Then a dark object passed within fifty feet of her skiff, ran on for a hundred feet more, suddenly slowed down, and ceased firing. In closer to the island, but still beyond her vision, the second boat was clattering truculently, and the voices rose even higher.

"He's stopped! He's stopped! Spot him now! It's our chance!"

"Can't see him yet, sir."

"You've _got_ to see him! If you miss him you're fired! Why the blazes do I have to be near-sighted?"

Miss Chalmers edged her skiff closer to the boat that had abruptly paused in flight. She had a suspicion. A moment later she knew. A half-suppressed exclamation reached her ears. The voice was one of recent memory.

For several seconds she was irresolute. Far be it from her to interfere with the long arm of justice or retribution, or whatever it might chance to be. It was no business of hers to trip Nemesis. And yet--

Well, perhaps she would not have acknowledged that it was sporting blood, but it was something singularly resembling it. She cared not a whit for the burglar; he deserved his fate. Contrariwise, she cared nothing whatever about the pursuers. They were entitled to no better than they could achieve. But she _did_ care about something else.

A stalled engine was a perpetual challenge to her.

To some persons the joy of battle lies in overcoming fellow men, to others in conquering the forces of nature, to still others in achieving hard-won triumphs over poverty or riches or other forms of adversity or perversity.

To Rosalind Chalmers, by some queer twist of her brain, it lay in starting a balky engine.

She hesitated no longer. What she did was without reason; but she was past that. Her fighting mood was uppermost. She laid to her oars and put herself alongside the motionless launch with such violence that the skiff rocked threateningly. Another instant and she was aboard.

The crouching figure of Sam, the boat person, arose from the cock-pit. Simultaneously a long arm whipped out with all his weight behind it. Miss Chalmers dodged.

"You fool!" she exclaimed wrathfully. "Here--hold the painter of this skiff."

The boatman whistled shrilly, then chuckled.

"Well, if it isn't the master mechanic!" he said.

Not far distant in the darkness, the second launch was plunging furiously onward, the man in the stern anathematizing his lookout.

"Thief!" hissed Miss Chalmers. "Strike a light here."

She was already bending over the silent engine.

"They'll see me if I do," said the boatman. "Best lie quiet for the present."

"A light!" she commanded.

He obeyed, holding the match low in the boat as he lighted the candle-stub and shielded the flame with his hand.

"You burglar!" she muttered contemptuously. "Where's your wrench?"

He reached under a seat and handed it to her.

"Hold that light closer--thief! Give me a hammer, too."

Fresh shouting reached their ears. The light in the cock-pit had been seen by their pursuers.

"Starboard! Starboard, sir!" beseeched an anxious voice.

"I see him. Shut up! You ought to have spotted him before. Stand ready now to make fast to him."

The boatman turned a glance in the direction of the voices and whistled again.

"I guess I'd better swim for it," he observed complacently.

"You quitter!" cried Miss Chalmers. "Get that light closer. There--hold it so! Oh, how helpless you are!"

The boatman's ears told him that pursuit was steadily drawing closer.

Miss Chalmers was doing something swiftly and mysteriously--just what, Sam had no idea. She gripped and twisted something with the wrench, then struck something else two smart blows with the hammer. A second later she seized the rim of the fly-wheel in both hands and gave it a vigorous turn. The engine buzzed noisily.

"There--you house-breaker!" she cried triumphantly.

The boatman took the tiller and blew out the candle.

"Much obliged," he remarked.

She dropped, panting, to a seat, and began to wonder what irresponsible act she would next commit.

There were cries of dismay from the stern boat when the quarry was off again, but there was no abandonment of the pursuit. In fact it was enlivened by a pair of bullets, which struck the water not far from the rejuvenated launch.

"Better get down on the floor," advised the boatman.

Miss Chalmers held her place.

Very calmly the boatman reached out, laid a hand upon her shoulder, and twisted her off the seat with a single motion, so that she landed with a bump on the floor.

"How--"

"Dared I?" he inquired. "Oh, I don't see any sense in running a chance of getting plugged. That fool back there just might hit something."

She was in a white rage from the touch of his hand and for the moment speechless. But she did not climb back on the seat.

Another shot sounded, but it went wide. The boatman took a knife from his pocket and cut the rope from which the skiff trailed in their wake. Miss Chalmers uttered a cry of despair at his action.

"We can't tow dead wood and expect to get away--not in this tub," explained the boatman.

"I--I don't want to get away!" she exclaimed.

"You don't?" There was genuine astonishment in his voice. "Then why in Sam Hill did you start that engine?"

She felt there was no fitting reply, so said nothing.

Soon there was a new sound from the rear, or rather a jumble of sounds--a shout of warning, a crash, a splintering of wood.

"There goes one of Mr. Witherbee's skiffs," commented the boatman. "They ran it down."

The lady who sat on the floor made no comment. She had no compunctions concerning the skiff, but she was suddenly alarmed over her own plight.

How would she get back now?

"He's gaining some," observed the boatman after a short interval. "I told you I wasn't a speed-king."

Miss Chalmers's mind once more detached itself from her predicament. She rose to her knees and stared out over the stern.

What the boatman said was true. The launch behind was now clearly visible.

"At this rate he'll get us in about five minutes," added the boatman after another inspection.

She made a dive for the engine and began tinkering with the spark. They _must_ escape! It would be too humiliating, too utterly beyond explanation to be caught now. She coaxed a few more revolutions out of the engine.

It did not trouble her that she was trying to cheat the law of its prey. She was wholly solicitous for the reputation and the dignity of Rosalind Chalmers.

"We're doing better than eight, now," she said defiantly.

"We haven't got the trunks," he explained. "But I'll bet she can't go nine."

Couldn't she? Miss Chalmers purposed to see. She mothered the engine again, touching it here and there deftly and tenderly, adjusting a screw, listening, adjusting again, doing a dozen things that the boatman would not have thought of doing. The engine responded gallantly.

"That's the first time I ever heard it purr," he said, in admiration. "You don't happen to be the inventor of that engine, do you?"

She ignored the question. She was too busy trying for that nine miles.

But still the stern boat gained--not so rapidly as before, yet consistently.

"I can't do any more," she said desperately. "You've got to do the rest. Do you understand? You've _got_ to!"

"Yes, ma'am," answered the boatman. "Will you take a chance in a mean channel?"

"Anything!" she cried.

"That's funny," he chuckled, "for a lady who doesn't want to get away. I was going to take the chance anyhow. Sometimes I make it and sometimes I miss it. I've been aground there six times. This is the first time I ever tackled it at night."

Miss Chalmers looked over her shoulder and saw that they were rapidly approaching land.

"You're running straight ashore!"

"Maybe--if I don't hit it."

By hitting "it" he meant a channel, into which they plunged a moment later. It was very narrow and very dark, and it served to make two islands where the casual observer thought there was only one.

"If we don't pile ourselves up this is going to be about as clever a thing as I ever did," remarked the steersman genially. "If we do hit anything you'll find a life-preserver under the starboard seat. In any event I'll lay you three to one they don't follow us."

She did not take the bet; she was too intent upon watching the rocks that rushed by almost within reach of her arm.

"I said it would be a pretty clever stunt," observed the boatman a moment later. "Here we are in open water again. No fear; they won't try it."

He swung the tiller sharply. The launch swerved and began to follow a new course.

"Is that Mr. Witherbee's Island?" demanded Miss Chalmers, pointing.

"That? No, indeed. We've been going away from Witherbee's."

"Take me there at once."

"You mean to say you really want to go back?"

"Take me there! Do you hear?"

"Why--yes, if you say so. Only, I took you there once and you wouldn't stay put. What brought you out, anyhow?"

"My own affair," answered Miss Chalmers shortly.

"Meaning I'm not to ask questions. All right. I'll take you back. You needn't worry about that--ma'am."

"Worry!" she flashed. "Do you think I'm worrying? Do you think I'm afraid--just because you are a burglar?"

"Well, to tell you the truth," answered the boatman slowly, "I've got an idea you're afraid I'm not a burglar."

"But you are!"

He shrugged his shoulders and devoted his attention to the course. It was a roundabout way to Witherbee's Island. The voyage was finished in silence. She did not know whether she was sorry or pleased when she set foot upon the lonely dock for a second time.

"No charge this time," observed the boatman. "It's on me."

She turned upon him fiercely.

"Let me warn you," she said, "that if you are caught--"

The boat was under way again.

"Well, good night--or rather good morning--Miss Accessory-after-the-fact," he called back.

*CHAPTER IV*

*QUESTIONS--AND A CLUE*

Dawn gently touched the eyes of Miss Chalmers and awakened her. She sat up briskly and surveyed the interior of the boat-house, at first with bewilderment, then with quick understanding.

"I remember," she nodded.

Then, glancing at her gown, she added:

"It's not likely I could forget. This is the day I arrive. I must hurry."

She reached for her grip, opened it, took out a ring full of keys, and arose from her canvas couch. A brief reconnaissance from the doorway of the boat-house assured her that Witherbee's Island was probably sleeping late, making up a lost hour.

She ran swiftly to the wharf, selected without hesitation one of her six trunks, unlocked it, and spent two minutes with its contents. Then she retreated to the boat-house.

Fifteen minutes later she reappeared with a bundle under her arm, returned to the trunk, stowed her burden away, shut down the lid and locked it again.

Miss Chalmers was a different lady. Her gown, her gloves, her hat, her shoes were all spotless. She carried a sunshade. Her hair was smoothly gathered in a low and luxuriant coil. If a Fifth Avenue shop had suddenly appeared in the background you would have wagered she had just stepped out of it.

"I think I'll take a little walk," she said.

She did not seek the path, but chose to follow the line of the shore in a direction opposite from that of the house. The morning air was virile. She breathed slowly, deeply, purposefully. She was a very healthy young woman.

"I have just arrived," she told herself. "I came down on a very early boat. I wonder if there _are_ any early boats--regular ones. If not, I hired one.

"And it's all perfectly true, too. I did get here this morning; it was past midnight. My trunks came ahead of me. How they came to be sent down last night I don't know; I'm not supposed to know.

"H-m! That's not quite so truthful. However, it will have to do. Of course, I know nothing about anything else--if they mention it. Particularly the pa-pajamas. I never saw them; I never heard anything; I never went anywhere.

"I don't think it's lying--exactly. If it is, so much the worse for the truth. It's necessary."

She followed the shore for several minutes and then, when the walking became difficult, retraced her steps. Out across the river she could see the island where the second burglar-hunt took place. Occasionally she scanned the water in other directions, half expecting to see her boatman engaged in futile fumbling at his engine. But there was no sign of him.

"To think--a thief!" she exclaimed. "I employed a thief! I might have known he was a thief when he charged me ten dollars! And twice I started the engine for him! I can't imagine why I did it--except the first time. I wouldn't be here now if I hadn't done that. It cost me a new gown, but-- Oh, well! What's a gown?

"Such a brazen thief, too--he accepted what I did as a matter of course! Bah! A dirty spark-plug! The thing is without excuse."

Miss Chalmers had reached the wharf again. Now she paused hastily and stood rigid, watching a figure that stood on the end of it. The man, who was tall and rather square in the shoulders, was dressed in white flannels. He was standing on the string-piece, his back toward her, his eyes searching the river through a pair of field-glasses. From right to left his vision ranged, while he stood with the military erectness of a bronze statue.

Once, as his head turned, she glimpsed the end of a tawny mustache. Then she knew him for one of the pajama trio. Involuntarily she looked at his ankles, and breathed a soft sigh of comfort when she saw that they were well covered.

Eventually, becoming tired of watching the watcher, she stepped quietly out upon the wharf, advancing to the nearest of her trunks and seating herself upon it. She was still studying the observer, wondering whether to speak first or to wait for him to turn, when there came a swift change in the tableau.

A bell rang loudly.

The tall man on the string-piece dropped his glasses into the river and whirled about. Then, remembering the glasses, he reached for them, a full second after they disappeared.

He reached too far for the purpose of equilibrium--not far enough to retrieve his loss. His body swayed outward. He clutched at the air; it slipped easily through his fingers. Then, folding up like a jack-knife, he disappeared from Miss Chalmers's vision.

The last thing she noted was a pair of surprised blue eyes, looking at her with unblinking steadiness. She was not at all astonished that the splash was a loud one, considering the manner in which he made his plunge.

The bell still rang blithely.

Miss Chalmers sprang down from her trunk and seized her grip, which lay almost at her feet. She had had enough of bells. Snatching it open, she turned back the alarm lever on a nickeled clock, then snapped the grip shut again. After that she resumed her seat and waited.

Over the string-piece a head appeared. Its owner observed her solemnly.

"I--er--I beg pardon, you know," said the head. "But--er--by Heaven! did you hear a bell, madam?"

Miss Chalmers shook her head.

"Odd as the deuce!"

His shoulders came into view and his arms gripped the string-piece.

"Odd as anything in the world," he added, as he continued to stare at her. "I could swear there was a bell, you know."

"I don't hear it," she said.

"Nor I, madam. It--er--seems to have stopped, you know. But there was one--oh, I'm sure! Unless, of course, you say there wasn't. I may have been mistaken. But--oh, it's frightfully odd!"

Miss Chalmers chewed her under lip until the pain made her wince. She had never before seen a long, yellow mustache drip water at both ends, and she was amazed at the quantity.

"If you've finished tubbing, why not come completely ashore?" she inquired presently.

"Why--er--thank you. I believe I will."

The rest of him appeared above the string-piece.

"Did you get your glasses?"

He stared at her for half a minute longer.

"I supposed, of course, you were going after them," she added gravely.

"So I was, by Jove! I quite forgot."

The tall man in the wet flannels turned around, stepped upon the string-piece again, poised himself, and then shot head downward into the water, cleaving it as cleanly as an arrow. Miss Chalmers was too surprised to move. She merely waited.

A quarter of a minute, then half a minute elapsed. Then, just as she was minded to run to the end of the wharf and look for him, a hand containing a pair of field-glasses appeared, followed immediately by its owner.

"Awfully good of you to remind me, don't you know."

Miss Chalmers was thinking swiftly.

"I don't know whether he is a fool or not," she told herself. "I'll be careful."

The tall man stroked his wet mustache and looked down at his flannels.

"Hope I didn't frighten you, I'm sure," he observed.

"Not in the least. You--interested me."

"Awfully kind of you to say that--awfully kind, Miss--er--er--"

"Chalmers."

"Ah--Miss Chalmers! We were expecting you--but not so early."

"I took an early boat."

"Why--er--the first boat down doesn't get here before ten, I believe," he said, staring again. "And it's not more than--"

"Not more than three minutes after six," interrupted Miss Chalmers. Then she flushed and frowned.

The man took out his watch and held it to his ear. He looked at the dial.

"Still going and-- By Jove, you're right, Miss Chalmers. What amazing guesses you Americans make!"

It was not a guess, however. Miss Chalmers's alarm clock, now ticking softly in her grip, had been set for six exactly. But she could not explain.

"We came so early," she said hastily, "that I decided to wait until somebody was up. I've been walking around the island, Mr.--Mr.--"

"I beg your pardon. Morton is the name."

He bowed deeply.

"As I was saying, Mr. Morton, I took a short walk after the boatman put me ashore, and--"

"Boatman, you said?"

"Why, yes; certainly."

"A chap with his own boat, was it?"

"It seemed to be his own boat," answered Miss Chalmers. "It's not very much to own, however."

Mr. Morton appeared to be interested.

"Now--if I'm not too inquisitive, you know--would he be a man with a beard?"

"He would; in fact, he was."

"Hum!"

Morton fell silent for a little, then turned to the river, raised his glasses, and made another survey. Miss Chalmers was becoming curious. Mr. Morton faced her.

"If you'll pardon me again, Miss Chalmers, would his name be Sam?" he inquired.

"He said it was. But why?"

Mr. Morton was silent again. Once more he scanned the St. Lawrence, now shining under the risen sun.

"Um--er--" said the dripping one as he abandoned his scrutiny. "Why? Did you ask why, Miss Chalmers? Why--er--really, no reason at all, you know. I've seen him--that's all. Just occasionally, you know. Really no reason at all, I assure you."

Miss Chalmers was assured there was a reason. She did not, however, pursue the inquiry. She told herself that it would be unseemly; what she meant was that it might be embarrassing.

Mr. Morton seated himself on the string-piece and allowed his glance to encompass her baggage.

"We saw your boxes last night," he remarked after a study.

"Indeed?"

Miss Chalmers spoke cautiously.

"Quite a surprise, you know, to Mr. Witherbee and all of us. We were looking for a rascal--a scoundrelly thief, by Jove--and all we found were your boxes. They're tremendously prompt with luggage in this country, aren't they? Why, they get it there ahead of you!"

"Sometimes," she admitted. "Did I understand you to say something about a burglar?"

"A burglar," he confirmed. "He rang the alarm, you know. Woke us all up. Rotten nuisance. Hunted all over the island. Found nothing--except your boxes. The bally bell woke the whole house."

He looked rather fixedly at Miss Chalmers.

"Awfully odd about that other bell, wasn't it?" he observed. "Quite startled me, you know. Made me drop my glasses. Must have been thinking of burglar-alarms."

"It was probably an echo of the alarm," she suggested.